


Bonfire Heart

by Mapal



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mapal/pseuds/Mapal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a number comes up at a country club outside NYC, John and Harold spend some time trying to unravel a plot, and some mysteries of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the life of me I couldn't think of a title for this.
> 
> Sorry if my updates take a while. My inspiration comes in crazy bursts.
> 
> Title Inspiration: Bonfire Hearts - James Blunt

   “We have another number.” A voice drifted into John’s nap, floating into his consciousness and dragging him from the depths of a very pleasant dream about a rocket launcher. He opened his eyes slowly and peered up towards the figure that was stood over him. The library was cast in a dusky light, the sun setting past one window, and there was the soft patter of rain against a nearby roof. “It requires some travelling.”

   It was Finch, stood there with a small, apologetic smile on his face. John had been enjoying an evening off, listening to the hum of the computers on Harold’s desk and the soft, consistent click-click of keys being tapped quickly. At some point he had fallen asleep, lulled into a peaceful nap by the soft evening atmosphere. It seemed his time off was over.

   “Where are we going?” he asked as he started to sit up, taking the suit jacket that was promptly offered to him. He had stripped down to his shirt to recline on the sofa.

   “Out of the city, to a country club I’m a member of.”

   John tugged his jacket on and looked up at Finch. “I didn’t take you as the country club type, Finch,” he murmured, standing up to stretch out his long limbs, Finch finally turning from him hastily to grab his own jacket and coat.

   “I wasn’t until an hour ago.” John felt a crack in his spine and sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides before leaning around Finch to grab his coat.

   “Are you telling me you got a number an hour ago and joined a country club before telling me?” Just how long had he been asleep? He thought he had just dozed off, but the crick in his spine and the events that had occurred suggested maybe he had been more tired than he thought.

   Finch rather forcefully tugged his coat collar into place and looked up at John. “You were asleep, and I had a cover to set up,” he said simply.

   John huffed and slung his coat on easily before grabbing the hat from its hook and plonking it unceremoniously on Finch’s head, earning himself a small frown. “It’s raining,” he explained easily, grabbing the scarf as well and handing it to Finch before whistling for Bear. There was the swift patter of claws on floorboards before the dog was right at his side.

   “What are our covers?” John asked as they walked down to the street, taking the stairs slowly.

   “I am Harold Crane, eccentric and elusive billionaire; you are my personal body guard, John Randall.”

   “Ourselves, then,” he said with some amusement as he opened the external door for Finch, allowing him to exit the building into the rain first. “One day you’ll run out of bird names and be left with just _Tit_.”

   Finch stopped to look at him, face a mix between joining in with John’s amusement and being slightly outraged by it. “I don’t think I’ll ever run out of names,” he finally said quietly and indignantly, but John didn’t miss the hint of a smile on his lips. He flashed Finch a small grin and rolled his shoulders as he looked around the street. The setting sun beyond the band of clouds made the rain look like falling gold, the ripples in the puddles edged with sunshine.

   John loaded their two small travel bags into the trunk and put Bear in the back of the car where a blanket was already set out for him as Finch climbed into the passenger seat and started to set up a route to the country club on the car’s GPS. John was soon beside him, turning the car on and adjusting the heaters to keep them warm. “You should sleep on the way there,” he muttered as he started to pull away from the curb, Finch settling down a little further in his seat.

   There was a small huff from Finch and John glanced across at him. He was getting comfortable, but his expression said there was no way he was sleeping. “I don’t think that’s likely,” he said quietly. John could understand. He had only really seen Finch sleep (nap was the more appropriate word) in the safety of the library. Mostly it was when John walked in first thing in the morning and found Finch passed out at his desk. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen him really settle down for a good few hours, other than when he had been drugged. Being outside of a comfortable zone left you feeling vulnerable, and sleeping left you defenceless and open.

   They travelled in comfortable silence, Finch pulling out his laptop from the bag at his feet at one point to do some more research into their number – Phillip Coleman, a philanthropist who had made his fortune through hard work and had built his company up from nothing. After rattling some information off to John, digging around in Coleman’s bank accounts, and noseying around at the clientele at the country club, Finch put the laptop away and settled down again.

   Fifteen minutes later he was asleep, resting peacefully against the side of the car, and John couldn’t help smiling as he glanced across at his friend. The sleep would do him good and John was glad that Finch trusted him enough to deal with any problems they could face. There was a soft snore from the back seat where Bear was sprawled out and John let out a sigh before relaxing in his seat. Maybe he would get some meaningful rest soon too.

~*~*~

The country club had high-end accommodation that offered the utmost privacy. It was all part of the package. They pulled up at the front of the club after three hours and John wondered why they hadn’t just taken a plane, but found himself glad they hadn’t. For some reason, he never felt completely comfortable on planes. Maybe it was the problematic flight the Machine had put him on before, or the idea of being thousands of feet in the air in a pressurised container. Knowing Finch, he knew that. A valet stepped down to the curb as John pulled up, waiting patiently for the occupants of the vehicle to exit.

   “We’re here,” John murmured, reaching across to gently wake Finch with a squeeze to the shoulder. Finch stirred, a frown crossing onto his face as he seemed to realise he had slept the whole way. “I’ll get our bags.” He slid out of the car, denied the help from the valet, and grabbed their bags from the trunk, along with the duffel of his selected weapons that he kept in there at all times. You could never be too prepared. Finch was soon climbing out of his seat and going to the back of the car to get Bear, grabbing his service harness from the footwell and slipping it onto him.

   John handed the keys over to the valet and then followed Finch inside. The staff didn’t seem all too bothered by someone turning up so late, as if it was something they dealt with often. John looked around at the entrance hall with its shiny marble pillars and leafy plants as Finch booked in with the lady at the desk.

   “What made you think that?” He heard Finch mutter to the lady and he turned his head just a little to listen better.

   “That’s what men usually- I mean. It’s not uncommon,” she said, flustered, as she handed a key over to Finch.

   “That’s a dangerous assumption.” Finch didn’t seem all that ruffled, in fact John could hear a hint of amusement in his voice. “The room has a futon, correct?” John saw the woman nod from the corner of his eye. “That’s where he sleeps.” What.

   John finally turned, a small frown on his face, as Finch quickly signed a piece of paper and then span to look at him. “Did you just have a conversation about how I’m not your male lover?” he asked under his breath as they started walking towards a hallway to their left.

   “It’s apparently not uncommon.” Finch had that subtle grin on his face and John found it infectious. ‘Male body guard’ seemed to be code in such places for ‘this man that I fuck in secret’. They made their way to their room, which turned out to be a rather large and luxurious suite. The bed looked like it had a mattress made of marshmallow and John confirmed this by promptly flopping down onto it.

   Finch was watching him from where he was rummaging through his travel bag. “What?” John said as he lifted his head to look over the mounds of comforter and mattress that had puffed up when he landed on it. “That’s not the first thing you do in nice hotel rooms?”

   “I just didn’t think it was the first thing _you_ did,” Finch said before going back to his bag. “Coleman is in the room next door. We were fortunate enough to get front row seats for whatever trouble he may be in. I believe you know what to do with this.” He pulled long cable from his bag and John immediately recognised it as a camera that could be passed through vents.

   He regrettably stood from the bed and went over to take the camera. Was he really stuck on the futon? The bed was too inviting. Maybe they could share, back to back. As an image of sharing a bed with Finch, _not_ back to back, ran through his mind, he shivered involuntarily but apparently visibly. “What was that?” Finch asked, moving out of John’s way as he dragged a chair under the vent in the ceiling.

   “A chill,” he lied smoothly. What _was_ that? Probably the months of denial and secret emotions catching up with him. For a while now he had thought maybe he wanted Finch to be more than just a friend, but he was unsure if his thoughts were true or if they were just a reaction to someone saving his life in such a way. It was easy to fall in love with someone so patient and caring, someone who brought you back from the brink and kept you safe, who gave you a purpose, but was it wise? Was it real?

   John stood on the chair and passed the camera into the vent as Finch hooked it up to his laptop to see the output. After a few seconds, John could see the image on the screen and used it to guide the camera into the next room, letting it sit just inside the grill of the vent and giving them a good view of about half of Coleman’s bedroom.

   “It appears our man isn’t sleeping,” Finch mused as he looked at the empty bed. John stepped down from the chair and moved up beside him, taking in the image.

   “Bed’s still made,” he muttered. There was the sound of a door opening in the room over and they both looked up in the direction of the sound for a second before returning their attention to the screen to see Coleman coming into view. With a woman. “Seems he doesn’t intend to sleep any time soon.”

   They watched as Coleman, a man in his thirties with short brown hair and broad shoulders, handed over cash to the girl, the audio crackling a little as it relayed what he said. “ _Here’s your tip._ ”

   “ _People normally tip me when we’re done,_ ” she replied, backing him towards the bed.

   “ _Oh, I know I’ll be satisfied._ ”

   Finch gave a small wince before flicking the audio off as the pair fell to the bed. He turned from the screen to look at John, who only raised one eyebrow a little. “A tip,” John said.

   “Not a payment,” Finch finished. He paused for a moment before fishing into his pocket for the card the receptionist had handed him. John looked down at it, read it upside down. It had numbers for the front desk, and room service, and ‘extra services’. “The club has _extra services._ I’m guessing… they take payments for girls from the customers. All part of the package. I’ve seen it before.”

   “Well, this wasn’t in the pamphlet,” John said with one last glance to the laptop. The pair were getting busy and he reached out to close the lid a little and keep it from view for now. “Is Coleman married?” he asked as he returned to the bed to sit on the edge. Finch joined him.

   “He broke up with his girlfriend three weeks ago. They were together for four years, then she cheated on him with someone who had even more money.”

   “He’s on the rebound?” Even though he has pushed the lid down, he could still see the motions of two people getting very hot and heavy on the screen.

   “A pretty big one. He bought a new car worth one million dollars and lost a further three million in a casino. Before all this, he was sensible,” Finch mused.

   “So maybe he pissed off the wrong people,” John said as he laid back on the bed again, legs hanging over the edge. Finch looked at him, turning his body a little.

   “He’s not in any debt with anyone, but he could have annoyed someone he shouldn’t have. His accounts are rather clean, but I haven’t been able to access his emails yet. He has some sort of encryption.”

   “Hiding something,” John murmured, closing his eyes and stretching out across the mattress.

   “Probably.” Finch went quiet for a moment before speaking again. “There are no cameras in the hallways, but having eyes out there would be useful.”

   John cracked one eye open to look at Finch and the small camera he was holding up in his hand. He sighed and slowly sat up again, coming almost nose to nose with Finch. “You know, normally the places that say they value privacy have a lot of ways to invade it,” he said as he took the camera, ignoring the flutter in his stomach as Finch looked straight into his eyes.

   They were so close there on the bed, so close that John felt Finch’s breath puff gently against his cheek, and maybe it had been a very bad mistake to get into that position when he had so many questions in his head about just what was happening exactly. “I’ll look for hidden networks,” Finch said quietly, almost a whisper, and John nodded before drawing away from him.

   Oh, this was going to go bad so fast if he didn’t get it under control. John left the room with a semi and a racing heart, fingers twitching a little from the subdued urge to just _touch._ When had things gotten this bad? When had he started to lose his senses?

   John set up the camera outside Coleman’s room and then had a snoop around their part of the hotel. Everyone seemed to be asleep, the halls quiet. Suddenly, there was a voice in his ear. “I see you,” Finch said. John stopped still and looked up towards the ceiling, scanning the walls. “Two ‘o’ clock, waist height.” He followed the directions and spotted a flower pot with a tall fern in it. “Hello.”

   “Hi,” John said as he crouched to see the camera sat just under the leaves of the fern.

   “You were right. There was an encrypted network separate from their main one. I’m inside now. It appears they have cameras in every room.” John frowned and stood up again, starting to head back to the room.

   “Even ours?”

   “Yes. I shut it off for now and deleted the data since we arrived.”

   “Won’t they notice?” John paused as a girl left a room in front of him, offering him a small wink as she turned to head back to the foyer.

   “I’m certain they will. I’ll have to turn it back on when I figure out the blind spot. All the cameras face the beds.”

   “It’s blackmail material,” John muttered, rounding the corner onto the hall where their room was.

   “And it must be effective. People still come here, which means new customers don’t know about it. It’s all kept under wraps.”

   John opened the door to find Finch sat on the bed with his legs out-stretched, laptop on his thighs. Bear was curled up at his side and lifted his head as he spotted John. “Do you think Coleman is going to be blackmailed?” John asked as he shrugged off his jacket and slung it over a chair before sitting on the bed at Finch’s feet, hand reaching out to absently scratch at Bear’s ears.

   “That seems likely. A threat to ruin his reputation could be effective,” Finch said before lifting his gaze to look around the room. John followed his line of sight as it settled on something and spotted the plant on the sideboard opposite the bed. “Plants appear to be the weapon of choice.”

   “If they have the whole country club bugged, they must have dirt on every client they’ve had here.” John turned his head to look at Finch who nodded a little.

   “There’s a large amount of data stored behind some more encryption. Whatever they have, they’ve gone to great lengths to keep it all secret. I can try to get inside, see what they have. Maybe Mr. Coleman is in there somewhere,” Finch explained, turning his attention back to his laptop. “I’m turning the camera back on now, but disabling the sound. Best behaviour, Mr. Reese.”

   John offered him a sly smile and then stood from the bed. “Just the one?” he asked as he looked around the room.

   “Just the one,” Finch confirmed. John walked to one side of the room and turned to look at Finch, who was watching him.

   “Here?”

   Finch looked at the screen on his laptop and motioned for John to step a bit further back, further, one more step, and then a small thumbs up. “Move over to the futon,” John asked. It was out of view of the cameras; Finch would be able to work without prying eyes there. He helped Finch move, taking his laptop for him and carrying it over to the futon, both of them sitting down there and John handing the laptop back. “I’m guessing sleep isn’t on the agenda for you tonight,” John mused as he watched the windows start to flash up on Finch’s screen, his fingers moving quickly.

   “No. We need to watch Mr. Coleman and try to find out where the threat is coming from.” _We_. John looked over to the bed rather pitifully and let out a small sigh. “You can sleep in the bed when the threat is eliminated.”

   It was like Finch was a mind-reader. John looked back to him and then watched the screen for a few minutes. He was trying to access the encrypted database and it probably wouldn’t take long. Coleman’s room had gone quiet and John could see the small window in the top corner of the screen which was the camera feed. Coleman and the professional lady were wrapping up, the woman getting dressed and talking to Coleman. “Turn on the sound,” John said quietly. Finch obeyed with a quick press of a button.

   “ _Thanks,_ ” Coleman said from the bed where he was sprawled under the covers. John leaned a little closer, pressing against Finch gently.

   “ _Any time, Phillip,_ ” the woman said as she slipped her dress back on. John watched as she left, tilting his head a little at the sound of the door opening and closing. Coleman was suddenly up out of his bed and darting across the room.

   “What’s he doing?” John murmured close to Finch’s ear, feeling him shiver. “What was that?” he asked curiously, turning his attention for a minute to Finch.

   “A chill,” he grumbled, repeating John’s lame cover from earlier. “I believe he’s making a call.” They hadn’t jacked his phone yet, meaning they would only be able to hear one side of the conversation. They both leaned a little closer to listen.

   “ _Hey… yeah I did it. Is that all?... Yes… Yes I’ll do that._ ” Coleman hung up and tossed his phone onto the bed before falling onto it himself.

   “He planned to have the girl. Someone told him to do it,” John muttered, leaning away from Finch and immediately missing the warmth pressed against him.

   Finch turned his attention to the other windows as he gained access to the data on the encrypted database. “Oh my… it appears they have footage of… a lot of important people.” He scrolled through the files for a moment, names and dates flashing up in front of them. “Mr. Reese, we need to know who Coleman was talking to.”

   “I’ll bump into him tomorrow,” John said, “and jack his phone.”

   “And I’ll try to access his email accounts remotely, and find out just who the club has footage of.”

   John left the room again to scout the building and get a lay of the land. He was wandering through the foyer when the receptionist called to him. “Can I help you, sir?”

   He paused and looked over to her, offering his best, if unconvincing, smile. “I’m okay, thanks. My boss is… paranoid. He likes me to check everything out.”

   “I can assure you that we value privacy above all else here, Mr. Crane has nothing to worry about.” She was too polite for John’s liking, the kind of polite that said ‘please go back to your room and stop snooping around’.

   “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said simply before continuing his walk, heading down the next hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

   By the time John got back to the room, Finch had found his way into Coleman’s private emails. “It seems Mr. Coleman knows about the cameras, and the blackmail. He’s been communicating with someone who has an untraceable IP. Every email comes from a different ping location around the world,” Finch said as soon as the door was closed behind John.

   “Does anyone know that he knows?” John asked as he moved over to the futon and sat beside Finch, leaning on him again to read the emails on the screen.

_From: soloforge@gmail.com;_

_To: Phillip [PColeman@coletech.org];_

_Subject: RE:[no subject]_

_they're a threat to a lot of good people. this cant be allowed to continue. you're on their list philip make sure you do it right._

   “It’s possible whoever is behind the girls knows,” Finch said quietly, “and if they did, they wouldn’t want Mr. Coleman to expose them.”

   “You think he’s trying to expose them?” Finch silently opened another email for John to read.

_From: Phillip [PColeman@coletech.org];_

_To: soloforge@gmail.com;_

_Subject: RE:[no subject]_

_If we expose them, what happens to the footage? I can’t have that out there. It needs to be destroyed._

   “So someone wants Coleman’s help to expose the club. That could be dangerous,” John muttered. Finch hummed in agreement and scanned through a few more emails.

   “Jack his phone as soon as you can. We need to know who’s on the other end, and what their plans are.” Finch turned a little to look at John, but they were so close they nearly bumped noses. John backed off, feeling his heart start to flutter again. “I can watch Coleman if you’d like.” Finch’s voice was soft and sent a small shiver down John’s spine.

   As much as John appreciated Finch’s offer for him to get more sleep on the incredibly comfy bed, he shook his head a little. “I’ll unpack,” he muttered as he started to move from the futon. Part of him wished they had booked separate rooms this time. It wasn’t the first time they had bunked down together, John normally taking the floor or the couch and letting Finch take the bed, but with his emotions becoming more prominent it was different.

   He hadn’t thought it was possible to care again. He had thought maybe something was broken in him, that he had an inability to love, after everything that had happened. When someone scooped you up from the streets at your lowest point, however, and offered you exactly what you needed at the time he supposed it was understandable to start having feelings.

   Determining if he naturally loved Harold or if it was a response of gratitude was hard. John still hadn’t figured it out. He was musing over it all as he cleaned his weapons when Finch spoke again. “It appears the club owner just turned up,” he said quietly. “Jonathan Foster.” John looked up from where he was sat on the floor, hidden from the view of the camera, with a disassembled handgun in front of him. “And he has company,” Finch finished, turning the screen so John could see the feeds from the clubs hidden cameras.

   A stout, middle-aged man with thin, greying hair was walking into the foyer with three unsavoury looking men. Foster walked with confidence and dominance, seemingly leading the men onto his property willingly. “Russians,” John murmured as he spotted a tattoo on one of the men’s arms. “Why does a country club owner want muscle back up from Russians?”

   “Maybe the answer is on his phone,” Finch said with a small lift of an eyebrow. John didn’t hesitate to get up from the floor and pull his phone from his pocket.

   “Watch the cameras, let me know if any more turn up,” he muttered before heading from the room.

   Foster was still in the foyer when John strolled towards the front desk. The Russians eyed him up suspiciously and Foster halted his conversation with the receptionist as John sidled up to the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” the club owner said with a false warmth, the kind that said ‘wrong time, buddy’.

   “My boss would really like some champagne,” John started, idly pressing the screen of his phone to start the blue jack. “Your best, if you could.”

   “We have a room service number, sir,” Foster said as the receptionist picked up her phone. “It saves you having to leave the room.” The receptionist spoke to someone about the champagne and John slid his phone back into his pocket as the jack finished, a small, ‘apologetic’ grin spreading onto his face.

   “He’s a little paranoid about phones.”

   “It’s just champagne,” Foster said with a small laugh.

   “Champagne can say a lot. A celebration, a… special night.” John glanced to the receptionist and saw her flush red. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to bait them with the idea that an elusive billionaire was having a ‘special night’ with his body guard, but John needed some amusement from _somewhere._

   “The bottle will be brought to your room shortly, sir,” Foster said, apparently not thrown by John’s insinuation. The glint of interest in his eye, however, said otherwise. “Have a _good_ night.”

   John broadened his grin a little and then sauntered away, Finch’s voice coming to life in his ear as he left Foster and his men. “Was that necessary, Mr. Reese,” Harold said lowly.

   “No, but did you see her face?”

~*~*~

   They sat beside each other on the futon again, listening into the activity on Foster’s phone as John poured champagne into glasses. “Was the champagne really necessary?” Finch asked quietly as Foster spoke to the men about keeping things under wraps. It seemed they were partners in something shady at the club.

   “I needed a cover. Why not champagne?” John muttered as he offered a glass to Finch, who didn’t refuse and took it with a small sigh.

   “ _You’re asking us to keep things under wraps, Foster, but you sent in a sniffer dog,_ ” one of the Russians said. They had no camera feed for the meeting that was occurring somewhere in the club, so Finch had placed the laptop on a nearby table so they could both listen to the audio.

   “ _I did no such thing,_ ” Foster argued.

   “ _You thought you could just delete it? You don’t get off that lightly,_ ” another man said.

   “They have something on Mr. Foster,” Finch murmured as he sipped at the champagne. John crossed one leg over the other and sprawled a little across the futon, knee bumping against Finch’s.

   “ _I wasn’t trying to- I-_ ” Foster stumbled over his words. Both John and Finch leaned in a little closer like they were listening to a radio drama.

   “ _You’ve got twenty-four hours to get it under control, or we leak **all** the footage,_ ” the first Russian said, “ _and your club goes under. Deal with Coleman, or we will.”_

   “I believe we just found our threat,” Finch murmured, “either Foster will make a move or the Russians will.”

   “Sounds like the Russians are in charge here.” John drained his glass and put it on a side table. “They have footage of Foster, they’re using him to keep control of the club and the blackmail material.”

   “They said he sent in a sniffer dog.”

   “You think it’s Coleman?”

   Finch drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment before looking at John. “It’s possible, but I feel like there’s another party involved. Coleman was told to expose the scandal, but Foster wants the footage deleting.”

   “So who is trying to leak the one per-cent’s dirty secrets?” John looked at Finch, their gazes locking, and felt the muscles in Finch’s thigh tighten where his knee was lightly pressing against it.

   “I guess we’ll have to find out.” Finch promptly finished his champagne and stood, putting the glass down and glancing to John briefly. “Monitor Foster while I take a shower.”

   John drank more champagne and listened to Foster argue a little more with the Russians before they parted ways. He watched Foster walk through the hotel to his office and then sit at his computer to type away furiously. When Finch returned from his shower, John was in the process of using the tools on the computer to watch what Foster was typing. He glanced up as he sensed Finch and his brain slowly ground to a halt.

   Other than when things were blowing up and going south fast, John wasn’t sure he had ever seen Finch’s hair _not_ stood up. Now it was damp, and a little floppy, and all John could think was that it was kinda really attractive. Other than the wet hair and the scent of his soap, however, Harold was just as he had been before, just maybe a little more awake.

   Just as John’s mind started wandering around the path of _‘does Harold ever get naked? Of course he does, he has to get naked to shower. He’s naked in the shower. He was **just** naked in the shower’_ he turned his attention back to the laptop and cleared his throat. “Foster’s emailing someone,” he said, moving along the futon as Finch reached down to tap his leg and command him to make some space.

   Foster’s activity was up on the screen and they watched the words appear. ‘ _I need help from one of your contacts. There’s a problem that needs taking care of asap. Call me on the secure line.’_

   “He has another phone,” Finch said abruptly. John was already getting to his feet.

   “I’ll take care of it. Dig through his emails while I jack the other phone.”

   John made his way swiftly to Foster’s location, expertly fixing his mind on the job at hand and pushing aside thoughts of Finch’s body, his pale eyes, those clever fingers. It wasn’t the time to get all schoolboy crush over his employer. First, the job needed to be done. John was pretty good at compartmentalising, separating his work with his personal feelings, but he had to admit it was hard to take his mind off Finch.

   “Foster’s leaving his office,” Finch said quietly. John didn’t respond, pulling his phone from his pocket as he marched quietly to the office. He slowed his pace and looked more casual as Foster exited the room ahead of him, John pretending he was on his phone. All it took was a shoulder barge to make Foster drop his phone, a quick, bumbling apology from John, a harsh reprimand from Foster, and the second phone was jacked.

   John started to circle around the hotel, making his way back to their room. “He has a number of calls to and from one number, it’s saved as Solo,” the voice in John’s ear murmured.

   “Solo? As in Soloforge, from the emails?” John kept his voice low, well aware that it was somewhere near three in the morning.

   “I believe you may be right.”

   John let himself back into the room again and spotted Finch sat rather rigidly on the futon, knees together and laptop on his knees. From the shape of his spine and the slightly furrowed look on his face, John could tell the pain medication was wearing thin. He had found that Finch would remain sitting as he was, ignoring the pain, until he was done with what he was doing. Without a word, John reached into the front pocket of Finch’s case to retrieve the prescription bottle and plucked the complementary bottle of water from the nightstand.

   He sat beside Finch and silently offered him a pair of pills and the water. “Thank you,” Finch said softly as he took them and swallowed the pills with ease. “Foster’s last communication with Soloforge was three days ago.”

   “Maybe Solo wanted to bribe Foster too, but he said no.” John relaxed next to Finch again, gently retrieving the water bottle from Finch’s hand as he seemed too focused on his computer screen to really focus on putting it down somewhere.

   “I don’t believe that was the original intention,” Finch seemed to say more to himself than John as he searched through files and text and code. John watched idly, sipped at the water, and draped himself across the futon with one arm behind Finch’s shoulders. “There are fragments of conversation on his phone, texts… emails… they seem to suggest a change of interests between Solo and Foster. I think Solo may be our sniffer dog.”

   John noticed the awkward, stilted movement as Finch rolled one shoulder and didn’t really think before dropping his hand from the back of the futon to gently apply pressure. Finch froze and John paused for a moment before continuing with a gentle massaging movement. “If Solo is the sniffer dog,” he murmured as he felt Finch’s muscles relax beneath his fingers and found the knot in his shoulder, “maybe he realised there was more money to be had bribing Foster than simply deleting the footage.”

   Finch turned a little to look at John and he stilled his fingers on Finch’s shoulder. “Foster’s plan to delete the footage of himself backfired?” Finch said with a small raised eyebrow. “That makes sense. Solo found another club member who had been recorded, someone who wouldn’t want their reputation to be ruined, and decided to use them to gain control of the footage instead.”

   “Now the Russians want Coleman dead before his plan to expose the footage can go through. They probably want Solo out of the picture, too.”

   “And I would say they aren’t too keen on keeping Foster around for much longer.” Finch’s voice was quiet and John moved his fingers softly again. This time, he felt Finch lean into the touch a little. “You need to do that more often.”

   John grinned a little and moved his fingers to press at the area between Finch’s shoulder and neck, feeling the tension in his muscles. “I didn’t think you’d be into massages,” he muttered, rather enjoying the blissed out look that was seeping into Finch’s expression.

   “Me either.” Finch let out a long breath and then glanced towards the laptop. “After we clean this particular mess up, maybe you could work on my neck.” That was invitation John didn’t want to pass up. He nodded gently and stopped his motions for now, hand resting for a second longer before he removed it and placed it on the back of the futon again.

   Finch slowly lifted the laptop from his lap and placed it beside him on the futon. “We need to start keeping a close eye on Mr Coleman, and find out who Soloforge is. Somehow, we need to prevent possibly several murders in the next twenty-four hours.”

   “We’ve stopped worse,” John said with a small shrug.

   When all this was over, John was going to give Finch the massage of his life. For now, however, his mind had to return to the job.


End file.
